


Home Is Where the Heart Is

by imaginary_iby



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Romance, lots of pack!feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_iby/pseuds/imaginary_iby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories set in the newly rebuilt Hale Residence, as we move from room to room and watch Derek and Stiles' relationship unfold.  Each chapter will focus on a different portion of the house and will be posted with a corresponding photo, so as to really give you a feel for the architecture.</p><p>Chapter one: the bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/837/stilesandderek.jpg/)  
>  I took the liberty of gifting Derek with an impressive stack of money, so as to live vicariously through him. 

Grimacing at the fuzzy taste in his mouth, Stiles muzzily blinked his eyes open. He took in the familiar ceiling - earthy wooden beams, which swayed and then eventually solidified as his vision finally focused. He turned his head slightly to take in the room at large and immediately regretted it. He’d taken a vested interest in human biology class, so he knew for a fact that his brain couldn’t swish back and forth within his skull like a rickety boat – but it was certainly felt as if it was trying its hardest.

He opened his mouth, wetting his lips and croaking out, “bourbon is evil.” From somewhere near his side, there was a throaty chuckle. He knew instantly that it was Derek. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly he turned his head to take in the other man, sat on a large black leather chair beside the bed. “What was my dad thinking, letting me drink?”

Again, Derek chuckled. “I think the philosophy is, _once bitten, twice shy._ And better to be in the company of family and friends, when you don’t have to drive anywhere.”

Stiles flung out a dismissive hand. “Please, no werewolf puns, my brain isn’t up to it.” Breathing deeply, he shut his eyes again and listened to Derek shift around the room. The next thing he knew, a cool glass of water was being pressed to his cheek. He tutted indignantly.

“Sit up, Stiles.”

The indignation rolled over into a pathetic mewl of protest, but when the smell of warm and freshly buttered toast rolled under his nose, he pushed himself up against the headboard. “For me?”

Derek sat on the edge of the bed, nodding at him. “Toast first. Fill your tummy. Then water and Advil.”

Stiles began to chomp steadily on the toast, trying and failing to keep the subsequent crumbs contained on the plate. “We have Advil?” he asked around a mouthful.

Derek’s left eyebrow twitched, a tell-tale sign that he was attempting not to roll his eyes. “And you call _me_ an animal? Don’t speak with your mouth full. And yes, we have Advil. In honor of your delicate sensibilities, I stocked up on everything a growing boy with uncoordinated limbs might need.”

Stiles tutted. “Come on, I’m hardly a growing boy anymore.”

A strange kind of silence fell upon the room, and Derek held his gaze for so long that Stiles began to worry that he had butter on his chin.

The fact of it was, the celebrations the night before had served a dual purpose; to officially open the new Hale residence to the pack at large, and to host Stiles’ 18th birthday festivities. Stiles had poured more than a little of his heart and soul into the house, so it had been deemed fitting for him to hold his party there. 

Polishing off the last morsel of toast, he made grabby hands at the glass of water. Two Advil were quickly swallowed, the glass drained, and then he sunk back against the nest of pillows. “I find it hard to believe that my dad released a drunken me into the custody of, well, _you._ "

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Your dad trusts me more than you think.”

Stiles nodded, capitulating quickly. “True, I guess I’ve been spending so much time here lately, he’s stopped worrying. Which, huh. Is there any way to check if he’s a pod-person?”

This time, Derek _did_ roll his eyes. 

Breakfast - and the distraction that it provided - now over and done with, Stiles sunk further into the bed. He wiggled around, stretching with a rumbling groan. “See, I told you this mattress was the way to go.” It was his turn to hold Derek’s gaze, making sure to inject his words with a suitable amount of gravitas.

The truth of it was, they both knew that this room – hell, this _bed_ \- was as much Stiles’ as it was Derek’s. Every member of the pack had their own space, ranging from the couples to the parents. (Even Sheriff Stilinski had a little nook to call his own on the third floor). And yet, the unspoken rule during all the architectural planning and development and design, had been to never openly mention the fact that Stiles didn’t have a room of his own. 

Many a meal on the half-finished kitchen floor had devolved into a raucus, all-hands-on-desk argument over different tastes in furniture. Isaac and Erica and Boyd were at odds over everything ranging from linen to paint-color, and Scott and Allison couldn’t agree on beds to save themselves. Jackson had wisely, (and uncharacteristically), decided that interior design was a losing battle, and had left Lydia to her own devices.

One way or the other, Stiles and Derek had felt out each other’s tastes, and with a surprising lack of fuss had put together an airy, earthy, comfortable room. Stiles felt that it still lacked an appropriate amount of Iron Man paraphernalia, but Derek was a work in progress.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the feel of the mattress shifting as it dipped slightly under Derek’s weight. 

Derek leaned forward, slipping a warm hand up under Stiles’ shirt, palm smoothing over a surprising amount of muscle definition and fingers spreading out against oh-so-human ribs. One kiss turned to two, two to three, and before Stiles knew what was happening Derek was shifting to his knees over him, slowly pushing him down into the mattress. He was just dipping his fingertips into the elastic of Derek’s briefs, when a rough cough from behind the door interrupted his ministrations.

“Don’t even think about it, boys.”

Derek pulled back, utterly perplexed. “How…”

Stiles scoffed, not even remotely surprised. “You might be a werewolf, but he’s a _parent._ He knows _all._ ”

\-----

\-----

There was no denying the fact that losing his virginity had been on Stiles’ mind for far longer than he cared to admit. There was no denying that he was a teenage boy, with what he deemed were fairly normal teenage aspirations. His desire to have a _good time,_ in _several different positions_ had been genuine, but he’d ended up investing a little more care in choosing the person to have a good time _with_ , than he’d originally planned to at fifteen.

There was also no denying that said losing of his virginity had been awkward and he’d managed to be a complete goof throughout it all, fortunately eliciting fairly indulgent huffs and chuckles on Derek’s part.

The thing of it was… there was more to it than he’d thought. Oh, sure, a sizeable portion of him wanted to whip up a banner and wave it above his head whilst strutting down the street: I HAD SEX! AIN’T LIFE GRAND?! But he suspected word would get back to his father lickety-split, and he just wasn’t prepared for that kind of emotional trauma.

But there was also a kind of… quiet, comforting secrecy about it all, a secrecy that he hadn’t expected to exist, let alone expected to enjoy. The morning after, the pack was passing through the Hale residence at warp speed as they moved between work and class and life; cereal bowls were shuttled in and out of cupboards, the kettle was boiled and re-boiled, one carton of milk, then two, then three was finished off and discarded. 

And then there was Stiles, an uncharacteristically calm presence within the hustle and bustle. He sat at the breakfast bar, his elbow knocking Derek’s every now and then as he pretzeled the town’s large newspaper into a better shape. Life went on, but even as Stiles read about Beacon Hill’s Halloween plans, a portion of his brain kept re-living the night before. It was as if he and Derek, (who had pressed two fingertips to the pulse at Stiles’ left wrist), were the keepers of their own little secret; as if they were the keepers of their own little world, just _theirs_ to enjoy, a world that revolved around touch and making desperate noises.

As the weeks rolled on, and Stiles slowly cultivated what could only be deemed a sex-life, there were other little pleasant bits and pieces that he picked up along the way. He’d never really slept naked before. He’d always been a little physically awkward, and really when you were sharing a house with nobody but your parents, and then your dad, there wasn’t really any logical reason to sleep without pajamas. 

It didn’t take him long to learn to enjoy the naughty decadence of soft sheets against his ass. It also didn’t take him long to learn that he had a fondness for morning sex, so easily facilitated by warm, exposed, interested skin pressed flush against him.

Now more than ever, he knew that they'd made the right decision in investing in a King sized bed.

\-----

\-----

Blinking owlishly at his book, Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face and decided to call it quits for the night. He’d read the same sentence more times than he cared to admit, and it had only been iron determination to wait up until Derek got home that had stopped him from falling asleep hours ago.

With a mighty yawn, he slipped a little further down the bed, and he… he was just going to close his eyes for a second…

The next thing Stiles knew, something heavy was being gently plucked from where it lay awkwardly across his face. He blinked his eyes open to see Derek closing _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ , placing it quietly on the floor beside their bed.

Grumbling to himself, Stiles gently rubbed his poor squashed nose with his knuckles. “Thanks, ugh, that book could take an eye out.” He blinked a few times, taking in the early morning light that was beginning to wash into their room. “You just get home?”

Derek nodded, dropping a fist onto the bed beside Stiles’ hip and leaning down for a quick kiss. “Yeah, truck tipped over on the ice, traffic was backed up for hours.”

One, two, three quick kisses, and then Derek was standing up again, wearily slipping out of his jacket and draping it over the leather chair by the bed. He rolled his shoulders as he moved about the room, stripping out of his grey shirt and clasping his hands together to lift them above his head. He never liked being cooped up in the Camaro for too long.

Watching him intently, Stiles shifted about under the nest of quilts, scooting up to rest against the headboard and take in the view. The cool white linen on Derek’s side of the bed nipped at his skin for a second, before quickly warming beneath him.

To his immense surprise, Stiles had grown to love these quiet moments when it was just the two of them, all familiar muscle and scent and sound. When he’d been a teenager, all he’d been able to think about, (at least when it came to the bedroom), was sex. Crazy and wild and primal and all about the orgasms.

Yes, Derek had a thing for hitching him up against the glass wall and taking him right then and there. Yes, Stiles had a thing for pushing Derek up against the windows and dropping to his knees. And yes, they’d scandalized more than their fair share of passing bunny-rabbits. (Not to mention Scott, on one memorable occasion).

But there were other things about their bedroom that Stiles had grown to love.

In particular, the way that Derek always traced familiar little paths around their room, shifting from point to point with comfortable ease. He always stood still to unbuckle his watch, placing it gently onto the desk with a soft click. He always flicked on the desk-lamp with three fingers, rapping the fitting with his knuckles to settle the flickering light. He always cast Stiles absent-minded little smiles as he moved about, getting undressed. 

Without fail, Stiles always made it to bed before he did - through a combination of human energy-levels, (even those propped up by ADHD), and an ingrained habit of flinging his clothes off in a flurry.

Tonight, he wolf-whistled as Derek shuffled out of his jeans, earning a face-full of denim for his troubles. By the time he’d thrown them onto the chair, Derek had snagged a pair of pajama pants from one of the many drawers that lined the wall. They were a thin, soft, cool grey cotton - they belonged to Stiles, as a matter of fact; a little snug at the top but appropriately long in the leg.

Nestling back into his pillows, Stiles crossed his arms behind his head. This was one of those moments that he loved the most.

With two tiny, barely noticeable jumps, Derek tugged the pajamas up and on, running his fingers under the elastic to adjust them comfortably.

Stiles had never dared to point out that Derek had a very specific, (and utterly endearing), method of tugging pants on. In fact, the only thing better was watching him put on jeans – he always rose to the balls of his feet and canted his hips forward, looking down to clasp the buttons or slide up the zip. Without fail, Stiles would try to divest him of them right away. It was a vicious circle, truth be told.

The room was chilly, so much glass offering little in the way of insulation. Fortunately, Derek ran warm. It was the work of but a second for him to fall into the bed, all lupine grace long forgotten in the safety of their bedroom. He rubbed his cheek against his pillow, stubble scratching gently against the linen, and blindly cast an arm out to draw Stiles closer.

Soft golden grey light was slowly filling the air, illuminating the dancing dust that had been puffed up by Derek’s flop onto the bed. It looked to be a cloudless day, and Stiles knew that soon the room would be sparklingly bright. Grumbling, he tucked his face to Derek’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking about turning this into a series, moving from room to room in the newly rebuilt Hale house and cobbling together stories about Stiles and Derek's life there. I really enjoy building the fic around a picture, so if that's something you're interested in, please let me know. Cheers!


End file.
